


flowers in your eyes

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ciel and Lizzy are rich beautiful teens, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Lizzy is a beam of sunshine, Love Confessions, Private School, and Ciel is such a lovable brat, but mainly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 20:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Modern AU: King's College—Wimbledon, the premier preparatory school for London's elite.Golden girl Elizabeth "Lizzy" Midford claims she's not dating anyone but that doesn't stop the student body from trying to turn her love life into a virtual casino. Edgar Redmond? 1 in 4 odds. Charles Grey? 1 in 6 odds. Ciel Phantomhive? 9 in 1.(Or: the unconventional courtship of Elizabeth Midford measured by £2,210 Hermes book-bags, Alexis de Tocqueville, and catastrophic misunderstandings beneath an apple blossom tree.)





	flowers in your eyes

Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford cheerfully bounded down the hallway of King’s College—Wimbledon, one of the premier private high schools in the United Kingdom. Loose, golden curls cascaded down her back like a river of sunshine—a perfect metaphor if there ever was one for Wimbledon’s kindest, sweetest, and most amiable campus figure three years running. Elizabeth Midford was exalted as _the_ “it” girl of her generation—clever but unpretentious; bubbly but self-aware; gentle hearted though not at all a pushover. Mothers and fathers of England’s leading families yearned for Miss Midford as a daughter-in-law while girls continuously smiled and spoke well of their student council president and regional champion fencer.

There really was just one solemn question lingering in the air. Throughout her seventeen years of life, pretty, sweet Lizzy Midford had not dated. Not once. Not a single outing, dinner, or luncheon with a boy—or girl—in her life. When asked, she would smile politely and exclaim that her whole attention was currently focused on academics, fencing, and volunteering at cat cafes. Furthermore, when not in the company of books, swords, or whiskered kittens, Lizzy Midford could be seen laughing with billionaire scion Soma Asman Kadar at Hyde Park. Or shopping for jewelry and new dresses with Nina Hopkins. Or enjoying ice cream and cinema binges with Sieglinde “Sully” Sullivan. (Though no one called her by that nickname except Lizzy.)

Her life was a whirlwind of cotton candy sweetness and strawberry ice cream animation, always on the move.

In short, many posited that the future boyfriend of Lizzy Midford must be a person as well known as Lizzy herself. The first guess was Edgar Redmond, the Viscount Druitt’s nephew, who’d graduated from King’s College two years ago. Then the guess fell on Charles Grey—Elizabeth’s fiercest fencing adversary who attended Eton some miles away and who casually flirted with Lizzy whenever she crossed his path. And lastly, some bored, overly interpretive senior, had suggested that Lizzy Midford was secretly dating the sullen, spoiled, _enfant terrible_ of England: Ciel Phantomhive.

The joke was been so overwhelming that the student body simply ignored it—after all, it was an impossible suggestion.

Elizabeth—bright, beautiful, and kind—dating _Ciel Phantomhive?_ The haughty, aristocratic son of Lord Phantomhive who thought everyone beneath him? The impetuous, chillingly abrasive nobleman who wore custom made Rolex watches and imported Stefano Bemer shoes straight from Florence? _That_ Ciel Phantomhive? The one who was allowed a private driver on campus—the too handsome, ruby-eyed butler Sebastian Michaelis. The same boy who later filed a letter of complaint to the _dean_ of King’s College protesting that the parking spaces around the school were of an inadequate size for his Rolls Royce? _THAT_ Ciel Phantomhive?

_No freaking way._

That bored, overly interpretive senior was seriously questioned by numerous students who worried over his mental health before one dizzying classmate addressed the issue directly: “Greg, mate—you’ve got to be utterly _mad._ There’s no bloody way in hell Lizzy Midford would ever even _look_ at that brat! He’s awful. Lord knows why she’d want to be ten feet near him. Jeez, next time you theorize at least make a _believable_ theory, hm? Don’t go crazy on me now—not when we’re so close to graduation.”

 

* * *

 

Class had just ended for the day when Elizabeth Midford found herself wandering towards Layton House in search of the now in-bloom apple blossom trees. Her eyes gazed upward, in search of that grand continuous archway of fragrant cream-pink flowers painted in the style of Monet and made real by springtime’s touch. Seeing those blooms never failed to put a smile on her lips—especially when the breeze loosened a few blossoms, sending their petals spiraling to the earth—

Just as she reached the clearing Lizzy’s eyes widened at the sight of the figure seated underneath the canopy of cotton candy flowers.

“ _Ciel!_ ” Elizabeth beamed, heart soaring at the sight of cobalt hair and Italian loafers.

Without thinking, the ebullient blonde dashed towards the sullen male, who lifted his head at the sudden sound.

Immediately, he glanced back down, a faint feeling of unease filling his chest. It was Elizabeth Midford, the golden girl of King’s College running his way, schoolbooks clutched to her chest. He didn’t know much about her, other then the fact she was on every committee available to the student body, smiled prettily at everyone she came across, and sometimes looked his way when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

“I thought you’d still be on the east side of campus.” She smiled brightly, cheeks flushed a delicate pink. (And though she was not entirely aware, the blue haired noble noticed _everything._ It was in his nature to observe and catalogue—though he saw verbalizing such observations as pointless. Perhaps this was why he did not mention how becoming her blush was or how pretty her green eyes were or—)

The pale faced boy shrugged, seemingly disinterested in her company as he continued to read. “Class ended early.” He replied stoically, studiously ignoring how Elizabeth Midford, the girl even _Harry Styles_ seemed to have a fixation with, was now sitting next to him. 

And here Ciel was, blowing whatever chance he might’ve had by _ignoring_ her.

Yet instead of taking offense, Lizzy was not deterred. She’d always been a perceptive girl and hearing the earl’s detached answer, quieted with swift ease. From the collection of books she carried, Lizzy summoned a selection of poetry and opened the book to a previously marked page. John Keats.

_Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—_

Together, the two students read in compatible silence, serenaded by a gentle spring zephyr. From the corner of his eye, the sapphire youth studied Elizabeth—discreetly, imperceptibly.

For the longest time he didn’t know why she even bothered talking to him. (Not _with,_ since he rarely responded.) He’d been nicknamed the “villainous noble” barely four months after arriving at King’s College simply because he valued propriety and decorum over raucous partying—not that these brats here knew how to throw a proper fete. Was it really so wrong to want a little peace in the morning and a spot of tea in the evening? 

He wasn’t so different from everyone else—he just had better taste. Exquisite taste, if he did say so himself. And it wasn’t as if Ciel was forcing his views on anyone, they just assumed he would. Intolerant and cruel was how he’d been labeled and, after a while, Ciel had just given up on caring. He didn’t give a damn about their meagre opinions—not when future greatness awaited him. Let them speak in hushed tones and quiet whispers while he reigned this institution with a ghost-like presence, eliminating any and all who stood in his way. 

Ciel was perfectly content with his enigmatic role here at Wimbledon. A silent, steadfast watchdog.

Thus, he was confused (‘thoroughly flummoxed’ might’ve been a better term) when Elizabeth Midford found him reading outside the Claudia Phantomhive Library and politely asked if she might join him. He informed her (none too kindly) that she could do whatever the hell she liked so long as her ridiculously well-known presence did not interfere with his own reading. It’d been an automated, somewhat cruel response that would’ve frightened lesser mortals—someone with a shyer heart.

Elizabeth Midford was not that girl.

Instead, she’d given him a bright, beautiful smile that, to some, might have looked like pearls glimmering underwater. Ciel told himself he saw nothing enchanting about this blonde girl’s demeanor and had only moved his £2,210 Hermes book-bag away because he was an _aristocrat_ and it was the _courteous_ thing to do. He assiduously ignored how this particular book-bag was was the dark blue one with white gold buckles that’d been gifted to him by his mother on his fifteenth birthday. It was a gift he treasured but one he’d set on the grass all the same. 

It wasn’t because he was concerned she would have no place to put her jacket. 

That wasn’t it at all.

 

* * *

 

Strangely enough, these serendipitous meetings kept occurring. Sometimes thrice a week, sometimes once a month and slowly, reluctantly—and very much against Ciel’s will—he began to notice Elizabeth Midford whenever she dashed around campus. He saw her flitting in and out of the Arts and Design center with Nina Hopkins, he saw sparring with various hopefuls on the well manicured lawns of the Kingsway sports ground. He saw her ruddy cheeked and joyous as she won match after match—and then saw how she proceeded to help the younger students with their form and stance. 

He learned—rather cryptically and without a very sensible reason—that Lizzy Midford was top of her foreign literature class and had marks matching his when it came to history. It made sense in a way. All the books she’d brought to their silent reading sessions were of European origin. Classical with a multicultural edge, retaining a singular ipseity that was so utterly _Elizabeth._ Ciel tried not to make a mountain out of a molehill but he somewhat… _admired_ the girl’s varied tastes. From Alexander Pope to Alexis de Tocqueville. 

She was openminded. Genial. Welcoming. 

Yet it was only after that realization that Ciel truly began to close himself off. If she was so amiable, so beloved, why did she even bother spending time with him? He knew she had plenty of other friends (not that he and Elizabeth were _friends_ —they were acquaintances and that was _it_ ) who could provide far better company—and if one of not them then her doting, possessive older brother at Cambridge. 

Ciel honestly didn’t understand why she bothered seeking him out until one day, it hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. 

She _pitied_ him. 

That was it. That _had_ to be it. 

The epiphany—sudden and cruel—left a bitter, angry taste in Ciel’s mouth. If there was one thing he loathed more than ignorance, it was _pity._ He didn’t want to be pitied—didn’t need it from anyone, least of all Elizabeth Midford. For some inexplicable reason, he felt a…kinship with her. As if beneath that glimmering, emerald eyed cheer, she held something deeper—something _more._

But this was the exact reason Ciel didn’t do emotions. He didn’t like sentiment, didn’t enjoy the conflicting waves of fervor and passion—it sickened him. “Feeling” was a useless sensation and he’d done perfectly well without it for the past 15+ years. How _dare_ she make him feel otherwise? _How dare she?_ It was an irredeemable sin he’d never forgive her because his chest hurt and he felt so inexplicably lonely knowing that he held none of her affection and all of pity and _how bloody dare she?_

He’d show her, that seething fractured shard of his heart raged. He’d show her there was a _reason_ people feared him. 

And he’d do it tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

“Good afternoon Ciel!” Elizabeth materialized before him in a pleated skirt and traditional white button-up that was part of the standard King’s College uniform. Yet, against his will, he couldn’t help but notice the subtle differences—the way she wore a pink ribbon around her throat with a pretty crystal bunny dangling from it. How her golden curls were split in two pigtails that, on another human, might have looked ridiculous but on her, looked natural. Almost…almost _pretty._

In fact, there were a lot of things about Elizabeth Midford that Ciel found pleasing, such as her straight, confident stance (she didn’t slouch, not like other girls did) and clear, soft skin. He liked how she moved with elegant ease and how she radiated warmth like the summer sun. He liked her lark swift voice and thought her emerald eyes were— _no._

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

He grit his teeth. This wasn’t the time or place to think about whatever girlish charms Elizabeth Midford had. He had a job to do. 

Instead of giving Liz— _Elizabeth_ his usual nod and glance, Ciel didn’t look up from his reading, hoping she’d _leave_ and _go_ and never come back. 

He pursed his lips when she came closer, carrying with her the scent of orange blossoms and lavender. It was a sweet, citrusy fragrance Ciel had come to associate exclusively with Elizabeth and, for some godforsaken reason, this made his heart ache—just a tiniest bit.

“Ciel? Are you alright?” She asked, concern touching her voice. 

He forced himself to keep his gaze focused— _read the text, ignore the girl, read the text, ignore the girl._ He mentally chanted. 

“Ciel—“ 

“I’m fine.” He spat, the venom in his force shocking her into silence. _Leave, leave, leave._ It couldn’t be clearer—he was _not_ some lost pup to be pitied and coddled. 

“Oh.” Elizabeth sounded soft—and apologetic. 

He ignored the pinpricks of guilt jabbing him in the rib cage. Fuck his rib cage. 

“I’m sorry.” She said again, not making any move to sit beside him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your studying.” 

“Then why are you still talking?” He sniped, knuckles whitening from his grip on the book. 

And Lizzy, while gentle, good, and sweet, stood her ground. 

She’d never been afraid to call him out on his cruelties—like she’d done when he’d been particularly nasty to Sieglinde once upon a time. 

“Why…why are you being so _awful_ today?” She demanded. 

From above, Ciel heard a blue jay’s song: bright and cheerful, just like Liz— _Elizabeth,_ he mentally slapped himself for the slip. 

“I’m not being awful.” He turned a page, not even sure what he was even reading anymore. “I’m busy. And I don’t want you around. It’s that simple—or are you unable to comprehend that maybe, just maybe, some people aren’t charmed by your hyperactive brazenness and spoiled sense of self?” 

_Repress. Repress. Repress—don’t think about it. You’re doing yourself a favor. She’s just using you, taking pity of the poor little boy who’s always alone and—_

“If you don’t want me around then say it. You don’t have to act like some Byronic villain to get me to leave you alone. I’m not trying to make you miserable and if I am, I certainly don’t mean to.” Her voice was firm and even, but Ciel—through his years of training—could hear the vulnerability. The hurt and pain she valiantly tried to keep hidden. 

And he couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit proud. 

She was strong. Far stronger than anyone gave her credit for. 

Shaking himself from these thoughts Ciel realized she was still standing there, hesitating ever so slightly before she swallowed, lifted her chin, and spoke. 

“A while ago, I read one your essays in the school paper and I thought it was one of the best analyses I’d ever laid eyes on.” She let out in one rushed breath. “No one here had ever done such a wonderful analysis on Fitzgerald’s _The Beautiful and Damned_ —it’s one of my absolute favorite American novels. I loved how you correlated the lackadaisical hubris of Anthony Patch to his desperate desire to emulate the old world aristocracy. I loved how thoroughly you evaluated Gloria’s need for public adoration and her dependency on outward validation and—well,” she blushed, “even though I didn’t know you then, I wanted to find you and get to know you.” 

_I wanted to find you and get to know you._

Ciel couldn’t have been more surprised if Lizzy had pulled a pink elephant from thin air and doused him in paint thinner. He didn’t think anyone had read his first—and only—contribution to the _Wimbledon Journal._ He was even more sure no one would care for his interpretation. There were few people who understood his mind and even fewer, his heart. 

How on earth did pretty, sweet Elizabeth Midford comprehend _both?_ Why did she even _bother?_

“I just…wanted to know the author behind the writings.” She murmured, all gossamer and honesty and heartbreak. “I didn’t mean to be such a wretched bother to you.” 

_You’re not._ The words were stuck in his throat, he was frozen in place, unable to move or speak because she didn’t _pity_ him. She…she _admired_ him. She might…she might actually… _like_ …him. _You’re not a bother—I…_ ** _like_** _having you beside me. You’ve become so ingrained in my life that it doesn’t feel right to walk around without you. Don’t you know? I can’t even read Tocqueville without thinking of you._

It was then that Ciel registered Lizzy walking away, could hear her footsteps growing fainter and fainter fainter and, before he could stop himself—

“Wait.” He all but tossed his book to the side as he scrambled to stand, one hand reaching out for her to _come back._

She turned, emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears. 

A strange, unconditional feeling of wretchedness brewed inside him. He walked to her, cherry blossoms scattering soft shadows across his porcelain skin. “I didn’t mean what I said.” His voice was soft. “You’re not a bother, Lizzy. You’re…” 

_You’re wonderful. Beautiful. Indescribable as the morning sun._

“I’m…not?” Lizzy said uncertainty, coming to face him fully. “Then why did you try so hard to force me away? Did you…did you think I was just with you because I _felt bad_ or something?” 

Her words hit too close to home. 

He swallowed. “Or something.” He managed, averting his gaze. 

She’d hit the bullseye he desperately wanted to avoid. After all, showing insecurity was a sign of weakness—something he always took such pains to avoid especially, _especially_ in front of her. He didn’t want Lizzy of all people to realize the truth of the matter. He’d never wanted her to see him so clearly. 

“I…don’t mind.” He muttered and _God forbid,_ ** _how_** _have I become so pathetic?_ Ciel could feel his pride screaming to salvage what was left of the situation. _I don’t care why you’ve decided to stay by my side. I just want you here._ “I like your company too much to tell you to leave for real.” 

It was a painful extraction, as if a surgeon had carved out Ciel’s heart and tossed it on a dinner plate. 

His confession was by no means grand or poetic but here he was, Ciel Phantomhive, the _aristocrat of evil,_ all but begging for this sunshine girl to stay. 

Instead Elizabeth gave a soft sniffle and shook her head. 

Her answer—the sharp denial—pierced him like a dull sword, sloppily slicing through flesh and muscle until he felt paralyzed, unable to comprehend the thousands of knives being crammed into his heart. “…I see.” He swear he’d cough up blood, the pain was _piercing_ god fucking _dammit._ “I understand how you might feel towards me at the moment—“ 

“I don’t pity you one bit, Ciel Phantomhive.” Elizabeth interrupted, eyes burning with emerald fire. “I don’t pity you because there’s nothing about you that deserves pitying. You’re clever and shrewd and so horribly smart that sometimes I wonder how you manage it all. You’re resourceful and striving and more courageous than you give yourself credit for. You don’t care what anyone says about you and I…I admire that the most.” Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, teardrops on her lashes. 

“I don’t pity you Ciel Phantomhive.” She continued, eyes opening. “But I _care_ about you.” 

He didn’t know what to do. 

How does one—? 

How does _he_ —? 

Why does _she_ —?

Her confession, so gentle and delicate, sutured whatever wound there was and he could feel fire—burning blue fire—coursing through his veins. He felt himself wanting—for the first time—to laugh and cry and hold her so close so Lizzy could see she was everything he wanted to love. In five quick steps Ciel was standing right in front of her and the scent of orange blossoms and lavender filled his senses. 

“Lizzy?” He coaxed gently, one trembling hand coming to brush her cheek. “Lizzy please don’t cry.” 

She shook her head, almost afraid to come closer. “I don’t want you to hate me, Ciel.” 

“I could never.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I—that is—I mean…you…” 

He could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, knew that his father would tease him until day turned into night for this, but he didn’t care. 

He _couldn’t_ care, not when Lizzy was staring up at him with a smile that could rewrite history. 

“Do you mean that, Ciel? Truly?” She whispered. 

He opened his mouth to deny the statement—to push them back into the category of acquaintances and companions and escape to a world free of sentiment and concern—

But his heart (that pesky, useless organ) spoke instead. 

Placing one hand on either side of her face, Ciel brought her closer until their breaths mingled together and she could see the soft warmth radiating from his smile. “ _Yes._ ”

 

* * *

 

Her kiss was sweeter than honey and Ciel, being who he was, couldn’t help but taste her lips again and again. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Beautiful and Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald tells the story of Anthony Patch and his relationship with his socialite wife, Gloria. The two live a lavish life of sloth based on the presumption that they will one day inherit a grand fortune from Anthony’s grandfather, a wealthy business tycoon. Set in the early 20th century, the novel examines how predetermined wealth can impact one’s psyche and, in particular, highlights the alcoholism of Anthony, the frivolity of Gloria, and the shrewish selfishness of each individual. The novel is considered semi-autobiographical, drawn in part on Fitzgerald’s own relationship with his daring Southern belle bride, Zelda. 
> 
> A/N: I’ve had this on my computer forever and decided to post it up :) 
> 
> Feedback appreciated!


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